


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sort of (they'll get there)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 09:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16344272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... because the world is ending.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.

_"You should not be here."_ As far as warnings go, this one is rather tame.  No pointy swords aimed at his throat, no fire spread to cordon off his escape routes, no angry masses frothing at the mouth as they scream and yell at him, demand his blood as payment for - existing?  Spreading the Scourge?  Daring to breathe them same air as them?

Once upon a time he knew the reason for such hatred, knew it  _well_ , would hear it over and over in the Draconian's mind-numbing  _drone_ in his prison, chains clanking with every shiver working through his body from the chill on the wind, body weary and begging for a sleep that wouldn't -  _couldn't_ \- overtake.  Oh but the Astrals were cruel to string him up in a cell exposed to the elements, with only a  _sliver_ of sky to rest his eyes on, tired eyes feasting on every star they glimpsed, the beauty of the moon, clenched tight against the sun and its burn, the prickle of heat on his skin before it blistered and burst and leaked black poison from his veins.  Once upon a time he remembered the weight of a mantle over his shoulders, the preparations for a crown to be set atop his head, the sharp sting of betrayal from his gods and his people, how quickly their love turned to hate, to harm, to a desire to maim and kill.

But memories are fickle, fragile things, and he has only ragged scraps of them to work with some two thousand years later.  Half-remembered voices and shadowed faces he will never see again except, perhaps, a distant echo in the features of a descendant walking the few streets kept safe from - well, his siblings and offspring, if one wished to get technical.  No matter.  There is no violence here int he exposed belly of the planet, no need to watch his footing for fear of traps that will have him swinging upside down in the fleeting speck of daylight or chomping down on his shin and shattering the bone (so very  _rude_ of those hunters!).  Nothing but the rasp in that barely audible whisper, a voice he knew better than his own once upon a time, a voice that could soothe him from even the worst nightmare.

Until the nightmares became real, and he'd last heard that same voice breaking in torment and sorrow, screaming as it never had before, begging for mercy.  For  _him_.  Is this why he finds himself here, his feet on a path he hadn't consciously decided on?  Taking this last chance offered to him to meet a friend who stood by his side to the very end, a lover who stood  _ahead_ of him when judgement was cast against him, sword raised in his defence?  Or is it something else, something more?  Does he long for a lover's comfort one last tie, to rest his head on a scarred chest and hear the heartbeat within, feel its rhythm under his palm?  Or do  _they_ work against him in the background, warp his thoughts and desires to meet their own ends so they might feast on his love's flesh and suck the marrow from his bones?

  _"Why do you come here?"_ Asks the voice and he looks around the gloomy cavern in hopes of spotting its owner, to see if his suspicions are correct, to  _know_ if time has left his former Shield as untouched as he.  He opens his mouth to answer - but it isn't  _he_ who speaks.

**"Such a dreary place for _legend_.  Has the first Shield... finally fallen from grace?"**

A mist over the pond much like the Painted Lady's, crackling with a hidden power they can taste on their tongue, grey and red and green and purple, the colours of prickly-sharp armour the Host's hands bear scars from.  But no black, not a single speck of black, save for the shadows flickering beyond the reach of flame and light,  _shivering_ in their presence.

_No_ , the Host moans within, realising the significance.

**Interesting,** they purr, utterly  _charmed_.  A little lost outcast, just like the Host!  Perhaps they could sway him, turn his soul and steal his form, feast on the strength of spirit and body and help him walk from this wretched place?  They have the scraps of memory locked up in the Host's brain, they  _remember_ the fluid dance of this warrior in battle, so like the fury of Yojimbo and yet not,  _more_.   **Deathsinger** they will call him, and death he will unleash once they break the human bindings around his sould and -

_"Begone, foul creature.  Your kind has no business here."_ Says the one called Gilgamesh, stepping from the manifestation of his magic with such easy grace it makes their mouth water, fractures their disguise as  _want_ courses through diseased veins.  He stays in the pool and... of bothersome note he has lost a limb.  An arm.  A swordsman off balance, off kilter, that simply will not do!  They spy no weapon on him, and so dare a step froward, then two, skin ripping wide as they grin with too many teeth for the Host's shell to accommodate.  If his use is compromised, if he is use _less_ then perhaps...

**Eat him - take the other arm - break his bones - drain him dry - steal the soul!**

So many voices in one small form, such a cacophony!  Rattles and echoes in the Host's head, a rebounding crowd, a swarm clamoring over each other, shouting and screaming loud enough to be heard, louder still, for the suggested action to be taken, chaos, confusion.  They each and all want violence and blood and pain and -

_Enough!_ The Host snaps, flaring bright with that  _wretched_ Oracle light of his and they hiss, they waver, they scuttle back to the corners of his shell, taking their black blood and foul taint with them until he's a pasty-faced corpse again, swaying in the gloom.  The death-touch magic sputters within his breast, goes silent as the heart that hasn't beat since the First twined her sticky fingers 'round his wrist.  Is it safe to sneak back through, they wonder, to seize control of the Host's body fingertip by fingertip and breath by breath as he takes a step towards the one called Gilgamesh?  Can they reclaim use of the body without detection and bury their teeth in his throat?  He would taste  _delicious_ , they know, all that power in his flesh, glowing in the hellfire of his eyes, and they are  _hungry_ , so hungry, the Host has denied them a meal for so long, too long, ever since he pit his might against that accursed city and the wall that nearly ripped them from their safe harbour in his being.

Can they?  Will they?   _They hunger, they will, they must -!_

Ardyn's foot dips into the pool, cautious of any loose sediment that might upset his balance.  He can feel the daemons under his skin, a roiling mass of black thoughts and  _murder_ , can feel their rage and their bloodlust and the hollow hunger he's been plagued with for  _centuries_ , never to abate no matter what they force down his gullet in effort to sate an endless appetite.  He feels them as he does the weakness trembling through his limbs, the clammy prickling of his skin, the laboured breathing that comes with reaching through the void cast in his soul to drag forward the remains of his once holy magic, fighting it tooth and nail and  _commanding_ its work with every rebellious spark singeing him for the Scourge he contains.  It was dangerous to come here and it  _is_ dangerous to stay, to dare approach his former Shield, to stand before the one called Blademaster while weakened and uncertain and more human than he's felt in years.  Grey spots bleed around the edges of his vision but he ignores them in favour of that burning stare, how utterly  _still_ Gilgamesh is, not even a breath stirring his chest.

_Have they cursed you as I, old friend?_

He takes another step, and another, water lapping up to surround his knees, higher and higher until he's waist deep in it, wading through it, fingers twitching upon its surface for the unnatural warmth of it.  Like body heat,  _wrong -_

"Ardyn," Gilgamesh says, and the soft brush of it over his ears stalls his progress.

"I -"

_Pain_ , white-hot and  _vicious_ , lightning strikes up both legs and he might be screaming as they fold under him, as he tumbles for a watery grave, but his sight gutters like a spent candle and he knows no more.  Not a single daemon stirs under his skin as arms hook him back out, and behind his mask, Gilgamesh allows himself one brief smile as he settles Ardyn's body in a secure hold.

The trap worked.


End file.
